


songs of power

by maskedlady



Series: Nyarna [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Deleted Scenes, F/F, F/M, Gen, also referenced are ancalimë and erendis, because i just can't help referencing terrible elves, certainly happier than they will be in the other one, minor references to suicide and terrible elves, people are mostly happy, vanimeldë disagrees with her predecessors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28285029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maskedlady/pseuds/maskedlady
Summary: collection of deleted scenes from "our truth is interred with our bones". includes most of the happy times.
Series: Nyarna [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071905
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Nimruphêr

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of these before the actual work, so they ended up not fitting, for various reasons (ex. wrong pov, or I just couldn't fit them anywhere). But I like them, so here they are.  
> WARNING for obvious reasons they are not as good as the other one (except chapter 3, which is actually pretty good)

**i. Rómenna**

“We were living with our cousin before,” Nimruphêr says. “He thought we were not ready to be introduced to court yet. Rôthinzil’s Sindarin still slips in places.”

 _Still slips in places_. That, Vanimeldë supposes, is an Adûnaic expression. “You did not speak Sindarin as a child?”

Something like alarm flashes through Nimruphêr’s expression before she turns away. “No,” she says, then adds, “our parents did not arrange for it.”

 _Arrange for it?_ But Vanimeldë nods, though the girl can hardly see her. “Do you like it?”

“It’s slippery,” Nimruphêr says, turning back eagerly. “The sounds all run together! If you don’t know the words, it’s very hard to tell when one ends and the next begins.”

“Yes, you speak—” Vanimeldë catches herself. “—like you’re speaking Adûnaic,” she says instead. “Very sharp.”

“Sharp how?” The wariness has returned to Nimruphêr’s face. “Do I have an accent?”

“Many people have an accent, at court,” Vanimeldë hastens to reassure her. “Many nobles come from different parts of Númenóre, and speak differently from the court fashion. But you don’t have an accent,” she adds. “Only a sharpness to your words.”

“Are you a poet?” Nimruphêr asks.

The sudden change in subject startles her. “Why?”

“That was synaesthesia, was it not?” says Nimruphêr. “Sharp words.”

“Are you a scholar?” Vanimeldë asks in turn.

Nimruphêr smiles. “Hopefully.”

**ii. Armenelos**

“I wish I could sing songs of power, like the Elves of old,” Vanimeldë said. They were lying in the grass of the royal gardens, staring up at the intricate canopy of leaves overhead; Vanimeldë’s ever-present harp lay at her side, and her hands never strayed far from the strings. “Then I could sing my dreams into being.”

“What do you dream of?” Nimruphêr asked. She had brought a book, to study, though it now lay abandoned in the grass by her side. Vanimeldë looked at the trees, and between them, the sky; Nimruphêr looked at her.

“Peace,” Vanimeldë said. She closed her eyes and added, in a whisper, “Power.”

“You are your father’s heir.”

“True power,” Vanimeldë amended. “Power to do as I please when I please, unquestioned. Power not to do what others think I should do. Power to be left alone.”

Nimruphêr turned on one side and watched her, interested. Vanimeldë’s eyes were still closed, and the rising sun’s light fractured in the glass of the garden’s dome and played in her eyelashes, drawing delicate shadows on her cheeks. _Vanimelda. Movingly lovely._

Distractingly beautiful. “You want absolute power,” Nimruphêr said.

Vanimeldë’s eyes opened. Her gaze was bright and hard and sharp. “Yes.”

“What will you do with it?”

Vanimeldë’s eyes had been described, upon various occasions and within her hearing, as shining, pearly, mesmeric, cutting, transparent. It might have been the way the rising light fell right on her or the way she spoke, determination and conviction lending strength to her voice, but right then, they burned. “I will change the world.”

**iii. foreshadowing**

Vanimeldë did not change the world.

Vanimeldë never had absolute power, not if she really thought about it, but that was one thought she did not care to chase; the paths it led down were dark. Vanimeldë did not even have the legacy she deserved, for even in her life her deeds were unknown, and after her death they were forgotten. 

Vanimeldë the beautiful, they called her, Vanimeldë the beloved, Vanimeldë who loved music and dance and gave no heed to ruling. There were songs about her skills in the arts. There were also songs warning girls to beware of suitors, to beware of who they married, new ballads of usurpers passed off as traditional barbarian tales, and those would stay even when memory of who wrote them did not.

Vanimeldë changed the world, but the world never knew it.

**iv. choice**

“Would you lay down your life, if you could?” Vanimeldë asks. Nimruphêr snorts.

“If you’re asking whether I wish to emulate Maedhros, no, I have no particular wish to jump into the Meneltarma. I don’t think I can, in any event…”

Vanimeldë shakes her head impatiently. “I didn’t mean like—”

“—suicide?”

“—no. I meant like the kings of old. If you were of the line…?”

“It seems like a waste,” Nimruphêr says, “though I probably would want to, if I couldn’t—walk, or talk, or see. Probably.” A strange look comes into her eyes. “Do _you_ know how to do it?”

Vanimeldë shakes her head. “The knowledge has been lost,” she says, which is what her father told her. “The kings who ended the practice did not want it to survive, and it was forgotten.”

“That’s a lie.”

Vanimeldë draws back, stricken. “It is not.” Her father does not lie—not to her.

“It is.” Nimruphêr smiles triumphantly. “There is no such thing as laying down your life. It’s suicide. Just like Maedhros. Perhaps they did not do it so theatrically—they probably had some kind of discreet way, a poison of some sort…”

“You lie! How would you know this?”

“I read it in a book by a queen that Niluzîr gave me. It’s a secret book,” she adds, worry stealing into her voice. “I do not think it would be accepted if the king knew about it…”

Nimruphêr is always afraid of getting in trouble—into _serious_ trouble, the kind you get executed for. Vanimeldë wonders sometimes whether that, too, is something she acquired from a book, or maybe—maybe there’s more to it, a secret—

She forces the thought away and smiles reassuringly at her friend, who visibly relaxes. “But why would they say it was something different, if it isn’t? Why lie?”

Nimruphêr shrugs. “Because it makes you special, to have a Valar-given—no, an _Eru_ -given ability. It’s one more thing that sets you apart from the populace, along with your greater lifespan and whatnot. Because suicide is contemptible and this is something honourable, and the two things don’t reconcile.”

This—this is what’s peculiar about Nimruphêr. She’s afraid of getting in trouble; and yet she’ll say things like _greater lifespan and whatnot_ , and accuse the honoured dead of lie-spreading as propaganda—without a second thought, as if it were something natural. Then she will worry. Or not. Only sometimes does she seem to realize the weight her words carry, and then her worry will be out of measure, greater than her actions warrant.

“But it is no longer considered honourable. Why keep lying?”

“I can think of two reasons—one, your father doesn’t know either. Maybe that is your lost knowledge—the knowledge that there was no special knowledge to be lost. Second reason—no one wants to dishonour the dead, and saying _my ancestors lied_ brings shame upon you as well, so they don’t do it. Also—even a past glory is a glory of the House of Elros. So it’s much the same as the early kings’ to keep the pretense up...”

“Which one do you think it is?”

Nimruphêr turns a _look_ on her. “They can coexist,” she says.

“Yes, but do you _think_ they do?”

“I think your father doesn’t know.” She shrugs. “As you said: he does not lie to you.”

Not intentionally.

**v. library**

“Eledhwen!”

The voice that echoed through the library was unmistakable, and not only because no one else called her that, or because no one else managed to strike _that_ balance between melodic and commanding, between music and authority; but because it was a shout in a library, and yet no other voice rose to protest the transgression. The royal library of Armenelos was where the country’s foremost scholars retired to conduct their work, people who had earned enough respect and renown to have people in no way beholden to them scrambling to fulfil their every demand; the rules on silence were very strict.

Still, even those bowed to royalty.

Nimruphêr did not look up, so when Vanimeldë slammed her hands on the table they could both pretend her flinch was genuine.

“Vanimeldë,” she said, closing her book. “What brings you here?” Here, in this place when one couldn’t dance, or sing, or speak loudly.

Or, well. Shouldn’t. Unless one was the granddaughter of the King of Anadûnê.

Vanimeldë’s arched eyebrow said she knew exactly what Nimruphêr was thinking. “I missed you!” she said, dropping into a chair opposite her and crossing her hands on the table. “You’ve been gone so very long.”

Three months, visiting Rôthinzil in Andúnië on her ever-lengthening honeymoon. “I wondered if you’d forgotten me, in fact.”

Vanimeldë scoffed, dismissing both the suggestion and the lie that Nimruphêr had meant it. “How is your sister?”

Nimruphêr smiled. “Splendid! I’ve never seen her so happy. Although she was rather cross with me—I was… distracted.” She felt her smile begin to fade. The memory of her sister’s displeasure—no, _disappointment_ —was as painful as her happiness was uplifting. She shook her head decisively. Vanimeldë would want to hear about it, but not here. “How is your brother? Father? Grandfather?”

“My stepmother is fine, thank you for asking,” Vanimeldë said archly.

“You have too many relatives. I can’t ask about all of them at once.”

“You managed the three that are relevant to my succession well enough.” Vanimeldë’s voice had lowered to a whisper, but Nimruphêr still looked around, more out of habit than genuine worry—one could never be careful enough and Vanimeldë’s words could easily be read as an accusation of treason. Though they weren’t. When she looked back to Vanimeldë, the princess was rolling her eyes. “There’s no one here,” she said. “You always pick the most solitary corner of the library. And I checked.”

“ _You_ don’t risk losing your head for a vaguely treasonous suggestion someone didn’t even _mean_ to make,” Nimruphêr bit back. “Besides, working alone means no one can see what I’m working on.”

Vanimeldë cocked her head to the side. It did not make her look like a bird; no bird Nimruphêr had ever seen could have looked so curious and eager and lovely all at once. “What are you working on?”

“Not here.” Nimruphêr dropped the last tome on the pile she’d been building—carefully calculated as the most she could physically carry at once—and pulled it all off the table. She staggered under the weight. The absolute most she could carry meant almost too much, after all.

She had not accounted for Vanimeldë; the princess danced around the table, her feet light and soundless on the marble floor—it would have been a pointless affectation judging how loud she let her voice be, but it seemed to come natural to her—and snatched the topmost volume from Nimruphêr’s arms. She felt the load lighten immediately, and started walking towards the exit as Vanimeldë followed after her, looking at the book’s cover with interest.

“ _A Comprehensive Dictionary of Noldorin Quenya_ —what do you need this for? I thought you had it memorized.” The words were only half mockery; years before Nimruphêr had, in fact, boasted of almost exactly that. She’d been drunk. And twenty. She now wished for a way to go back in time and shut herself up, or in alternative for a pair of eyes on the back of her head, to glare at Vanimeldë. 

“I don’t—” she gritted her teeth and lurched forward to stop a book from falling “—I still don’t need a vocabulary to translate Quenya prose.”

“Oh? Are you writing a poem?” There was no librarian in the Great Library; there was a catalogue that allowed each patron to find out exactly where the books they’d taken had to go in case they’d forgotten where to take them back, which was what they were expected to do, and there was a system of shelves where one could leave the books they wanted to return to. Nimruphêr had sequestered a whole sector of them, divided in sections for her various subjects of study; she suspected there were people who hated her. Now she crouched to lay her book carefully on the floor, and started transferring them to the shelves—all on the same. _Translation-trouble-Quenya_ , she’d labelled it in her mind. As far as she was concerned, those were all synonyms or close enough.

Last she took the vocabulary back from Vanimeldë’s unresisting hands and set it in the corner, over a sheaf of notes that all but disappeared under the book’s bulk. “No,” she answered.

Vanimeldë raised an eyebrow, but did not press her for details. “Did you collect all of these in the two days since you returned,” she said instead, gesturing to Nimruphêr’s crowded collection, “or have you brought books back with you?”

“The collection’s been there for years.” They were whispering now; after her first outburst, even Vanimeldë had kept her tone library-appropriate. “And taking books out of the library is forbidden, Vanimeldë, there are very precious volumes that could be seriously damaged…”

Vanimeldë snorted. “And they let you touch them?” Her eyes roved Nimruphêr’s shelves, jumping from one point to another with an order she could not guess at. It made her slightly nervous. “You are a hazard.”

“I am a scholar. I’m very careful with my books.”

From the speed with which Vanimeldë turned to look at her, she knew she’d made a mistake. “ _Your_ books?”

“Slip of the tongue.”

Vanimeldë nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “I didn’t ask whether you’d taken books out of the library, though,” she said, and it took Nimruphêr a moment to recall what she was speaking of. “I asked whether you’d brought any in.”

Nimruphêr didn’t answer.

“You know what they say of guilt…”

There was something remarkable about how Vanimeldë could make her feel equally annoyed and impressed at the same time, she reflected. “Here’s another suggestion that could cause me to lose my head,” she said.

“ _Cause me to lose_. You revert to literary language structure when you’re nervous. Have you noticed?”

“I think you can understand why the possibility of death makes me nervous.”

“You scorn the Gift of Ilúvatar?” Vanimeldë asked, a hint of a smile starting to show on her lips. Of course, she was a princess, and she could speak treason, blasphemy, whatever she liked…

“Technically speaking,” Nimruphêr said, throwing caution to the wind—not that there was anyone to hear and anyway this was just _philosophical speculation_ , nothing particularly treasonous—“the Gift of Men is not death itself, it’s passing beyond the circles of the world, so my fear of a violent and untimely demise is as justified as an Elf’s would be.”

“You do it when you’re excited, too.” Vanimeldë was properly smiling now.

“I know.”

Footsteps tapped down the stairs, and they sprang apart—when had they gotten so close?—Nimruphêr turning to the shelves and reaching to move a book closer to another. Vanimeldë tilted her head up, regarding the tiers upon tiers of balconies that circled the library’s central hall. The footsteps manifested in the form of a young man—Nimruphêr knew him by sight but not by name—carrying a book under his arm and another open in his hands. At the sight of Vanimeldë, he bowed quickly and hurried to the other side of the wall. Nimruphêr watched him go. If she recalled correctly, he’d done some interesting work on Vanyarin poetry a few years back. Maybe…

“Come,” Vanimeldë said abruptly, drawing her out of her thoughts. When Nimruphêr looked at her, she saw her looking at where the young scholar had disappeared, an unreadable look in her eyes. It melted into a smile when she looked at Nimruphêr. “The gardens have changed since you’ve been gone. Would you like to see them?”

  
**vi. the fall**

“What are you singing?” said a voice from the door, and then immediately added, “is that Quenya?”, which is how she knew it was Nimruphêr even over the sound of herself singing.

She stopped and let go of the harp’s strings. “The Noldolantë,” she said.

Nimruphêr’s face expressed reflexive horror for the entirety of half a second before it was replaced by intense interest. “I’ve never heard it before,” she said eagerly. “I am very sorry for interrupting you. Please sing again? Take it from the top?”

Musical lingo always sounds so foreign in Nimruphêr’s voice, even when she gets it right. “No way. Do you know how _long_ this is? Besides I know you would stop me every two verses to correct some pronounciation I will doubtless get wrong—”

“I would never.”

That is a lie and they both know it, but Vanimeldë goes along with the pretense. “Then to sit quietly while a singer butchers your beloved ancient language would be a torture I do not wish to inflict upon you. I don’t believe you, for the record.”

“That I wouldn’t correct you? No, I wouldn’t interrupt you while you sing, it’s too beautiful.”

“You _just_ interrupted me while I sang, Eledhwen, that’s not even a lie, it’s—you’re lying to yourself. No, I meant: I don’t believe you’ve never heard the Noldolantë. I found the scroll in _your_ room.”

Nimruphêr didn’t even have to decency to look abashed. “Well, I’ve never _heard_ it. I have the text memorized, but I can’t read the musical notation and I… well, I didn’t trust anyone I might show it to not to—”

“—burn you on a pyre. Yes. You could’ve shown it to _me_.”

“You found it anyway,” she says, all wide-eyed innocence.

Vanimeldë rolls her eyes and turns the pages back to the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "a queen" = Tar-Telperiën  
> "the fall" refers to -lantë in _Noldolantë_  
>  not sure "take it from the top" is actually only music lingo in english, but pretend it is please, I don't _actually_ know any english music lingo
> 
> opinions expressed by the characters do not necessarily reflect my own opinions, as always


	2. songs of power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> songs of power are sung, for real this time. takes place while Vanimeldë is going around Númenor gathering favour.

It’s a small village, but it has a wide, open central square, with a pit in the centre where a bonfire currently flames happily. Vanimeldë sits near the fire, and does her best to seem approachable until what looks like the entire village is gathered around, laughing and talking and dancing. She smiles and talks and laughs with everyone who dares address her, and there’s more and more of them.

And eventually a little girl corrals enough courage to tug on her sleeve and ask would the queen kindly sing them a song?

Of course she’ll sing them a song, Vanimeldë says. The adults standing in circle also smile, their alarm fading quickly—see, our gracious queen, so accomodating of children, so willing to show mere commoners her famed abilities! Vanimeldë’s guard hands her her harp and she turns back to the children. What song would they want to hear?

An Elven-song, then clamor predictably. 

A specific Elven-song?

They hesitate. They do not know Elven-songs, they do not even know the language—Vanimeldë remembers her own arguments that the way a language sounds has value also independently from the meaning—eventually one of them says no, no, any Elven-song will do.

Vanimeldë sings a snatch of the Lay of Leithian, and the Lay of Nimrodel, and then a gentler song that was taught to her as the Tree Lullaby. She says its name too, and then makes the children laugh by sharing her childish wonders on Elves who could put trees to sleep.

One of the shyest speaks up from the back of the group. Maybe now she could sing a song in their language, so they can learn and repeat the words?

Some of the adults too nod and brighten.

_ Finally, finally _ .

Vanimeldë starts to sing.

There is power in songs, that is what she learned from the histories. Maglor, allegedly, taught his people a new language through songs only; and while Vanimeldë can certainly not do that, still her songs have power, too.

She can make them love her.

She can make them think what she wants them to think without them even realizing it.


	3. to bend without breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vanimeldë's very own philosophy

_Do not bend, Ancalimë_ , Tar-Elestirnë once said to her daughter. _Once bend a little and they will bend you further until you are bowed down. Sink your roots into the rock, and face the wind, though it blow away all your leaves._

The wind must be milder in Emerië than that which Vanimeldë knows. Wind strong enough does not stop at the leaves: it tears at branch and bark and the very earth in which trees are rooted, until no matter how tight you clench your fingers the soil blows away, and then the tree falls and dies, and all its resistance is in vain. In the forests that rise on the very edge of Anadûnê’s coasts there are fallen trees, their roots grasping fruitlessly at the air; though their trunks are proud and straight they make a pitiful spectacle, lying helpless on the ground. 

Nay, Erendis, nay, Ancalimë: that is not the way. Winds do not grow weaker no matter how valiantly you resist them, and the storms they become are armed also with lightning. Bend. Bend as far as you must, and make your spine supple, keep your wood green, to make sure you can snap back up when the wind has past; and if the wind does not abate find another direction to grow, for though your trunk become twisted and your branches gnarled your roots will hold strong and true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tar-Elestirnë is Erendis.


	4. warrior and queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> belzagar finds a bride

Vanimeldë returns to court rarely at first. Later she’ll go back to essentially living in the palace, but for now she travels almost uninterruptedly; and when she comes home it’s treated almost as a visit.

This time it coincides with Elcalan’s return from Middle-Earth. Her grandson is back, with a girl on his arm.

“A betrothed,” she says to him, contemplative, as they walk on the same terrace where in happier times she discussed her own son’s marriage with her husband. Elcalan has grown taller than she, and she has to tilt her head up to look at him. He holds himself stiffly; they haven’t seen each other in a long time. “I never thought you’d wed so early, Elcalan.”

“It’s Belzagar now, Ârî,” he says. 

“Belzagar.” Well, he’s a warrior, all right. “An Adûnaic name, and yet chosen according to the custom of the Elves.”

He doesn’t reply.

“You met your lady in Middle-Earth, I understand?” she says, changing the subject. He brightens at once.

“Yes. She comes from Anadûnê, though,” he hastens to reassure her. “A daughter of Rúnyo.”

 _Rúnyo_. Of the line of Elros, but only distantly related to her. “Is his wife not Rôthinzil? Daughter of Abrazân?”

“Falmalótë? Yes… I suppose so. I did not know her father’s name, however.” His pensive voice tapers off, and he casts her a curious look. “Do you know her closely?”

“No, but I knew her sister—she was…nevermind,” she says, thinking better of it. “She looks charming. Your betrothed.”

“Oh, she is. She is lovely. We argue, however.”

Ah. He does love her, then. “A strong character is a commendable trait in a queen,” Vanimeldë comments.

“She has a strong character, certainly. And some unfortunate opinions.”

“About what?”

“Elves,” he says crossly. “And Men.”

 _Oh_. That does not bode well. “Tell me of your voyages, Belzagar,” she says, changing the subject again, and he is more than happy to oblige.

“I wish you wouldn’t marry him,” she says to Silmiel some time later, once she’s met her a few times and knows her well enough that such a comment won’t be taken in the wrong way.

Silmiel inclines her head. “Why not?” she asks. They’re walking in the gardens, but for once the gardens are otherwise empty.

“You disagree often.” Her grandson’s arguments with his fiancée are frequent and violent enough that they’ve become quite the talk of the court, though they always reconcile quickly; they argue about anything, they seem to relish it, but it usually comes back to politics. “About subjects which will be relevant to your rule, once he takes the Sceptre. I do not wish to see you surrender your beliefs, which I fear would have to happen.”

“Your Majesty and Prince Herucalmo disagree often, as well.” _And he has not renounced anything; you have_. It goes unsaid because to say it would be treason.

“But I am the Queen and he is my consort; Belzagar would be the King, and you his queen.” 

Herucalmo is in power because he schemed and murdered to have her out of his way, and Silmiel, she can see it, will not; there is something of her mother in her, that delicate beauty, though none of the shyness. But Herucalmo is also in power because the Adûnaim do not like to see a woman in power, and they would not support Silmiel against Belzagar. Her grandson will rule as he wishes, and disregard his wife’s opinions if he sees fit, and no one will challenge him.

All this also goes unsaid, because to say it would be an insult, a suggestion that Silmiel can’t glean it alone. And if she can’t, well, the court is not her place and the King’s council even less.

But she can. “He loves me,” she says defiantly. _He would not do it to me. He will listen to me. I love him too._

 _That you do, poor child._ Vanimeldë smiles in acknowledgement. “That he does.”

But others have sacrificed their love when they thought it would benefit them.

Their betrothal is long, and when eventually they wed a child is long in the coming as well; when their son is born their marriage is already coming half apart. They give him the same name, in two different languages, and so anyone who does not wish to take sides in their war calls him by endearments or nicknames, and the poor child grows up with a dozen different names.

Although the more he grows, the further apart he grows from his mother, and eventually the only name he’ll answer to is Abattârik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I checked the timeline. Ar-Abattârik/Tar-Ardamin is born before the end of Vanimeldë's rule, so his father must have married during Vanimeldë's life, and she must have been aware. I am giving him a mildly Faithful bride. She's also the youngest sister of Lómiel, but they're nearly of an age.  
> Belzagar is supposedly composed by bêl- (Adûnaic "to love") and zagar, sword. Since I had his parents give him a different name, this one is self-chosen; he named himself sword-lover. Hence Vanimeldë's comment that he is, indeed, a warrior.  
> This also takes place during the early times in which Vanimeldë travels Númenor.  
>  _Ârû_ is Adûnaic for _king_ (shortened into _Ar-_ before names). _i_ is a feminine ending, so I modified the word accordingly.


End file.
